


Kings of the Road

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Hunters (TV 2020)
Genre: 1970s, All relationships are background, Conspiracy, Espionage, Europe, F/M, Fix-It, Hitler is dead, Joe doesn't get kidnapped, Meyer is actually Meyer, Nazi hunters, The Hunt, take over the world plot, the gang goes to europe, theyre also mostly slowburns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: The tarmac at Heathrow trembled beneath Jonah’s feet. Beside him, Joe hefted his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and slid his Aviators into place on the bridge of his nose. Roxy and Lonny assembled around them, and Harriet, naturally, took the lead. The blonde spy gave the Hunters a sardonic grin.“Welcome to England, you twats.”OR: After his grandfather's death, Jonah attempts to prove that he's worthy of leading the Hunt as he and the rest of the gang head to Europe to stop yet another Nazi plot to take over the world.
Relationships: Harriet/Lonny Flash, Jonah Heidelbaum/Original Female Character(s), Roxy Jones/Joe Mizushima
Comments: 34
Kudos: 24





	1. Prologue - Grief & Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely _loved_ Amazon's _Hunters_ \--until the last episode. More specifically, the final twenty minutes of the last episode. The Meyer twist was cheap and completely unraveled everything beautiful the show had to say about Jewish vengeance and justice. The Hitler reveal was even worse. So, I've said _fuck all that_. 
> 
> In this story, Meyer was Meyer, Hitler totally died in 1945, and Joe never gets kidnapped and dragged to Argentina. Oh, also, the Colonel is dead. Because no one needs Eva Braun in their lives. You can also expect this story to try to figure out what the hell is going on with Harriet and to see some good ole Nazi-killin' shenanigans.

“ _You mistook us for pawns when all this time we’ve been kings.”_  
– Meyer Offerman

The crime scene was crawling with uniforms when Detective Carson arrived, a cup of newsstand coffee on hand. “What’ve we got?”

His partner shot him a droll stare. “You’re late.”

Carson gave a careless shrug, gesturing somewhat with his coffee. “There was a line.”

At the edge of the bridge where the railing was no longer intact, but rather twisted grotesquely, cascading down to the water below, the Newark detectives stood and watched as a brand-new Mercedes was hauled out of the stagnant river. “Car accident. One DOA, a woman, mid-to-late sixties, brunette. No I.D. so far. But get this, the old lady was in the back seat. No driver.”

“You mean we haven’t found the body yet,” corrected Carson. His partner shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. I _mean_ , there’s no goddamn body. We’ve had divers searching since two a.m., and nothing.”

Jones made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat as he took a sip of his now lukewarm cup of Joe.

“Gets weirder. There are bullet holes in the car through the driver’s seat and windshield, almost like the old lady shot the driver and that’s what caused the accident.”

“So, the driver gets shot, they go off the bridge, and he survives?” Carson mused aloud. “It would explain why there’s no second body.”

His partner’s gaze lost on the rear bumper of the Mercedes as it hovered above the surface of the water, the tow truck engine whirring for dear life, the Newark detective sighed. “What kind of a crazy ass old bat shoots the motherfucker driving her car while they’re on a goddamn bridge?”

“The kind who didn’t like where they were going.”

* * *

The Colonel was dead, but so was Meyer Offerman.

When Harriet had radioed that Meyer was in trouble, Roxy had promptly slammed on brakes, skating the van around a curb as she pulled a u-turn and changed course. The boys had leapt from the van, tumbling down the banks of the river to find Harriet doing chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth on Meyer’s bloated corpse. It was Joe who eventually pronounced their leader dead, despite cries of protest from Jonah.

The boy collapsed at his grandfather’s side, shaking the Jewish elder by his shoulders in the sand, demanding that he “wake up, saba, _please,_ wake up. C’mon, don’t do this, goddamn it. Don’t. You can’t leave me, too. I can’t lose you both, please, saba, please. Wake up!” It wasn’t until Jonah began sobbing that Harriet’s limbs finally ceased to pump against the lifeless chest, at last abandoning any attempt at resuscitation. Only, her hands didn’t still. The Sister reached for the boy, instead, wrapping her arms around his trembling form, stroking tirelessly up and down his back and his arms. She didn’t offer words of solace, for there were none to be found.

On the banks, Lonny puked behind an elderberry bush.

“We need to go.” Joe’s words were harsh, but his voice was strained.

On the road, Roxy honked the van’s horn.

* * *

Almost three-hundred people attend Meyer’s funeral, and another two hundred were turned away because of lack of space. The service was held at Temple Israel on the Lower East Side where they had Amy’s wedding, as the local synagogue that Ruth, Mindy, and Meyer attended was far too small. Every living Mayor of New York was in attendance, as well as the Israeli Ambassador. There were flowers—giant, ostentatious bouquets and wreaths—from Prime Ministers and Secretaries of State. Even Simon Wiesenthal was there and had the sense to look grieved.

Rabbi Steckler led the memorial, but Jonah did not recite the _El Maleh Rachamim_. Or the kaddish.

He couldn’t. His chest was too tight, his throat nearly closed. Mindy held his hand the whole time, and though her eyes were rimmed with tears throughout the duration of the whole affair, she never let them spill over. Embroiled with death as they had been of late—first Ruth, then her Murray, now Meyer—, Mindy would be strong for the boy.

Though he remained silent at the funeral, Jonah sat shiva for Meyer, just as he had done for his safta.

No one said anything this time.

* * *

“Why are you here?”

Jonah didn’t have to work to ignore the hurt that flashed across Carol’s dark eyes. The neighborhood girl of his dreams crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “I’m _trying,_ Jonah, okay? I’m trying to be here for you, but you have to let me.”

“I don’t need you to be here for me. Not now. Not anymore.” 

When she reached for him, Jonah twisted away and out of her grasp. His stomach tightened uncomfortably, painfully at the way his name fell softly from her lips, a pitiful little cry. Where the fuck was her concern this time last year when she stopped answering his calls and starting chasing after dickbags like Dennis Duncan? He supposed it didn’t matter. When she stretched her fingers towards him once again, angling her lips to his face—a kiss of comfort? of sympathy? or of actual want, of desire?—, he steeled his hands like vices around her wrists and shoved her away.

“Don’t.” Though his nerves felt as if they were alive, bouncing around inside of him, Jonah hardened his voice. His tone betrayed nothing but exasperation. “I’m over this, Carol. You and me. I’m over trying to be enough for you, trying to make you see me. That kid who used to look for you out his bedroom window, who looked at you and saw everything he ever wanted? I’m not him anymore. That person isn’t me. So, please, just fuckin’ stop. Stop trying and stop calling. Don’t come over here anymore. I’m serious, Carol, alright? Just—fuckin’ _leave_.”

He knew he safta wouldn’t have approved, but there was no lie in what had been said, so when Carol disappeared, tears streaking down her cheeks and a slight tremble in her shoulders, Jonah neither stopped her nor apologized.

Carol was the latest in a long string of visitors.

Since Meyer’s funeral, Jonah found himself inundated by a seemingly endless parade of well-intentioned but ultimately cumbersome friends and acquaintances. Cheeks dropped by to share in Jonah’s grief over the death of his recently discovered grandfather and mentor. They smoked a little weed, drank a few beers, and ordered take out, languishing for hours on Ruth Heidelbaum’s couch. When it was time for Cheeks to leave, he pulled Jonah into a hug. It was the first embrace in over a week that Jonah hadn’t wanted to dodge.

With Booty gone, it was just the two of them now.

“Don’t play it too safe at orientation,” mumbled Jonah, clapping Cheeks’ shoulder one final time. “And don’t fuck the first girl you meet, all right? She’s probably got the clap.”

Cheeks laughed, good-naturedly. The smile he gave Jonah was a little bit sad, somehow already nostalgic for the friendship they both knew was going to come under great strain when Cheeks left for college while Jonah stayed behind in a neighborhood that promised nothing for him but ghosts.

The days felt hollower in Cheeks’ absence.

Jonah tried to fill the emptiness by wandering the length of Meyer’s mansion home. Naturally, he passed long hours up in the Arc and in the Hunters’ lounge. When the others weren’t there, he flipped through books in the library, looking for copies of well-worn texts, novels and other tomes that showed obvious wear in an effort to be close to the man he should’ve grown up calling saba. He also read the displayed newspaper clippings about Meyer’s various achievements and scanned through old date books, fingers trailing over pages and pages of Meyer’s scribbles, the old notes and telephone numbers now useless. Without Meyer, the mansion felt like a mausoleum.

Nearly a week had passed when Jonah was finally cornered at Meyer’s house by Jakob Goldberg, Esquire.

“I’ve been trying to pin you down for days,” Goldberg announced by way of greeting. They landed in the library—Meyer’s study felt too personal, but Jonah knew the library well. He felt he could command power there. Despite his first, perhaps somewhat theatrical inclination, they didn’t sit at the chessboard, however. Instead, Jonah directed the lawyer to the couches.

The second his ass hit the cushy sofa bottom, Jonah began itching with the impulse to leave or toss the lawyer out, but he knew that Meyer’s estate had to be dealt with.

“I’m sure you’re still grieving.” Goldberg wore a gold tie pin that probably cost more than a month’s rent at his safta’s house. “So, I’ll be brief. One year ago, Mr. Offerman came to me to update his last will and testament. He wanted everything—the house, the cars, his savings, his stocks—all of it—to go to a woman named Ruth Heidelbaum.”

Jonah’s stomach dropped at the mention of his safta. A year ago. Meyer had updated his will a year ago. Maybe he had abandoned them after liberation, but a year ago, faced with his safta, Meyer had decided to help his family in his own way. It was a long fucking way from making up for a lifetime of struggle and hardship that Meyer had left them to, Jonah thought, but it was a start.

“My safta’s—” he began, but the lawyer swiftly cut him off with a nod, adding, “Yes, your grandmother died, I’m aware.”

A muscle twitched in Jonah’s jaw.

“Which is why Mr. Offerman called me last month to update his will, once again.” The lawyer presented Jonah with a file several pages thick and stapled at the top. “Now, it’s all yours, Mr. Heidelbaum.”

The young man nearly got whiplash from the rate at which his head whipped up, eyes peeling away from the document in his lap to gaze at Goldberg. “Me?”

Fuck, did his voice crack?

“Yes, _you._ There’s paperwork you have to sign, of course. You’ll need to meet with the banks and the stockbrokers to have the accounts switched over into your name, et cetera. I also strongly advise that, given your newfound wealth, you also complete a last will and testament, otherwise in the event of your death—I assume you are unwed and have no children, young boy such as yourself—a great deal of your now considerable assets could be seized by the state.” 

Despite the fact that he was well-aware he should take the time to read through the contracts and the will, the news that Meyer had left it all—everything!—to him left Jonah gob-smacked. Like a boy, he sat stiffly on the couch, signing every paper the lawyer shoved his way, his fingers moving the pen automatically.

It would take a little over two weeks to sort it all out, Goldberg had said, but it was all…Jonah’s.

“Fuck.”

Alone, frozen like a poor man’s Greek statue in the library three hours later, Jonah looked around at the big empty room that now belonged to him. “I’ve gotta tell the others.”

* * *

Two days later, Mindy stopped by his safta’s house. She had a tupperware full of chicken soup, and she gave Jonah a watery smile when she spooned it into a pot to warm it on the stove. “Ruth always said it was your favorite.”

Jonah was man enough to admit that he cried a little while he thanked Mindy.

Though the soup wasn’t the same as his safta’s—far from it—, he ate it and was grateful, nonetheless. Mindy stayed while he did so, fretting about the house in classic bubbe fashion. She whined about the state of things, but also commended Jonah for keeping it all up, though she could see it needed “a woman’s touch”. After rifling through the pantry, the weapons expert took an hour to make him a lemon sponge cake out of the remnants of his safta’s kitchen stock. She might’ve even dusted at some point.

He wouldn’t have admitted it in front of Harriet or Joe or Roxy, but the three hours that Mindy passed at his home were the best that Jonah had experienced since Meyer’s death, maybe even since his safta’s death. He had forgotten what it felt like to be taken care of in a grandmother’s way, forgot the comfort and the warmth, forgot how different the house had felt when she was inside it.

When she left, Mindy patted his cheek, her permanently cold fingers chilling his skin. “You’re going to be alright, mhmm? We’re all going to be al- _right_.”

After her departure, Jonah heated another bowl of soup and sat down at the kitchen table with a stack of his grandmother’s cookbooks. As he slurped at Mindy’s soup, he began to thumb through the wrinkled pages in search of his safta’s chicken soup recipe.

He found it—along with his safta’s file on Wilhelm Zuchs, the Wolf. 

“Son of a bitch… _son of a bitch_.” His gaze flickered to a framed photograph of his safta that rested on one of the end tables in the living room. Jonah’s disbelief was equal only to his pride when he muttered, “You did it…you found him.”

* * *

Jonah didn’t tell the Hunters that he had found the Wolf. Sitting in the plastic surgeon’s Manhattan office, he kind of wished he had, though he knew the sour feeling in his stomach would still be there even if Harriet or Joe were waiting as back-up.

As Hunter Smith got his stitches removed, Jonah tried not to vomit.

When it was over, he waited on a city bench across the street for the Nazi surgeon’s shift to finish. When Dr. Friedrich Mann, aka Wilhelm Zuchs, exited the office, Jonah was ready. The young hunter slipped the Nazi’s wallet and keys from his pants’ pocket after he’d rendered Zuchs unconscious and stuffed him in the back seat of the Wolf’s Cadillac. Jonah wasn’t familiar with the uptown neighborhood, and it took longer than he would’ve liked to find the address on Zuchs’ fake driver’s license.

It was a struggle to get Zuchs into his townhouse without assistance, but years of schlepping a drunken Booty around the five boroughs had strengthened Jonah’s will, if not his back. Once they were inside—Zuchs’ American wife, Suzanne Mann, was currently at a Women’s Junior League meeting and wouldn’t be interrupting any time soon—, it was all a matter of duct tape.

Another half an hour passed before the Wolf woke up.

“I wondered if you would come.”

Jonah’s stomach clenched. He wanted to vomit. God, he wanted to vomit and run. He didn’t want to be there. Not with this man. He didn’t want to hear his filthy Nazi voice. Didn’t want to have to look into those cold, collected eyes and know the things that this man had done to his family.

“You know who I am?”

“You’re my patient. Hunter Smith.”

“I’m _not_ your patient.” His words were growled, and Jonah realized his foolishness. Had he somehow fed into the Nazi’s fantasies? Harkened back to the days when the Wolf was able to treat and torture Jews at his leisure? “I’m not your patient. I’m your death.”

Zuchs gave a short laugh. “My death? You are a child. What do you know of death?”

“You tortured my grandparents.” Jonah took a long breath to steel himself. “Ruth Apfelbaum and Meyer Offerman. Do you remember them?” The young hunter withdrew his safta’s knife from his back pocket. The weight of the handle in his grasp centered him. “I know you remember them. How you tortured my grandfather. How you made him kill those eleven Jews because my grandmother was in love with him and not you, you sick Nazi fuck.”

The truth of the matter reflected in the Wolf’s gaze. A heavy frown settled across his mouth.

“You’re not going to deny it?” demanded Jonah. “The others all did. They spouted excuses or begged for their lives. So, what’ve you got to say?”

A sudden weariness blanketed Zuchs, and as best he could while duct taped to one of his dining room chairs, the Wolf shrugged. “What difference would it make? You have come here to kill me, and so you must. Nothing I say will change this.”

Jonah’s grip on the knife flexed, his lips curling. “Admit it. Admit what you did to them. Admit that you stalked and coveted my safta. Admit that you tortured Meyer for nine hours. Admit that when you couldn’t break him, you forced him to murder eleven innocent people—eleven Jews!—to try and ruin them. Admit it!”

Zuchs remained silent, calculating gaze crawling over Jonah’s skin all the while.

In an impulsive rush of anger, Jonah stormed over to the Wolf and pressed the blade of his safta’s knife against his fleshy throat. Hand fisted in the Nazi surgeon’s button-down shirt, Jonah shook the monster and watched as a few beads of blood bubbled up onto the knife. “ _Admit it!_ ”

A tense moment lapsed, and Jonah feared that this was one piece of justice his family would never receive. But then, eyes skirting away from Jonah’s enraged stare, Zuchs muttered, quietly, “Yes, I admit it. I did it. I did all of those things. Ruth…and Meyer…I—” He fell silent once more, and Jonah released him.

“This is a matter of the past. A matter of the soul,” Jonah quoted one of his safta’s letters as he placed the knife on liquor cabinet against the dining room wall. The muscles of his stomach clenched painfully with the thought of what came next, he stepped several feet away from the Wolf. Thinking of another letter, of Meyer’s dream, of the notion that _it’s the monsters among us who deserve prayers most of all,_ Jonah placed a quivering hand on the pistol tucked into the waist of his jeans and began to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish.

By the time the kaddish was complete and Jonah mumbled an “amen,” his hands had ceased to shudder.

“For my saba.” Jonah squeezed the trigger—it still took more pressure than he was used to and the kickback gave more of a jolt than he thought it should, but he was learning, and this time, Jonah rolled with it—and shot the Wolf. The bullet entered the left side of Zuchs’ chest, and if the shattering of glass and dishware in the China cabinet behind him was any indication, exited out his back.

Jonah dumped the gun atop the liquor cabinet, exchanging it for his safta’s knife. He approached the Wolf, who howled and wailed with the pain, blood staining his fancy shirt. “For my safta.” One hand on Zuchs’ left shoulder, Jonah stabbed him roughly in the heart, burying the knife to the hilt inside the monster of his grandparents’ nightmares. Jonah waited, then. His hands still—one on the knife, the other on Zuchs—to watch the light receded from the Wolf’s eyes.

Just before that final glimpse of life died out, the Wolf peered up at Jonah with confusion and fear. “...Meyer? It’s you, Meyer.”

Then, the Wolf was silent and still.

* * *

There was a profound silence that followed the death of Wilhelm Zuchs.

Jonah wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but a glance at the clock told him that Mrs. Mann would be home within the hour. He found the telephone in the kitchen and called a friend for a ride.

When Joe arrived, he found Jonah sitting on the curb outside the Wolf’s townhouse, elbows on his knees, hands cupping his face. They were in a rush— _never linger at the scene of a crime, kid_ —, but Joe fell onto the stoop beside the boy, anyway.

“This wasn’t my justice. It was theirs. Ruth’s and Meyer’s. But they’re a part of me. Their justice, it’s my birthright. I had to do this for them.” Jonah’s voice was weary and punctuated by shuddering breaths as he spoke. Unshed tears shown in his eyes when the young hunter looked to Joe for some form of acceptance or understanding, pleading with his baby blues. “I _had to_ , Joe.”

The veteran merely placed a gentle hand on the young man’s back. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you lot enjoyed this little fix-it chapter! I know it was very heavy on the angst. The coming chapters won't be so morose as the gang finds their way to England and starts to investigate the next threat. 
> 
> Next stop, London!


	2. Next Stop, London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was usually the part where Meyer said something profound or gave Harriet the nod to debrief the gang. Only, this time, silence lapped the room. More than one pair of eyes darted nervously between Harriet and Jonah. Who would be the first to speak? Who would be the one to lead them?
> 
> OR: The gang gets together to talk Europe, and Jonah realizes he may not be the best at planning ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s Passover, friends!  
> Chag Sameach. 
> 
> This thing is hilariously un-beta'd. Also, the pacing of the last episode of _Hunters_ was whack, so I've re-imagined the scene in which the team discuss and ultimately decide to go abroad (but with Joe and Mindy present this time!). Some of the dialogue from the show has been borrowed.

Tuesday morning, the secret door to the Hunter’s lounge—which really, wasn’t that secret anymore—swung open to reveal a frizzy-haired Mindy Markowitz, hefting a damp paper bag of bagels and a folded but wet umbrella. “You know,” she announced to the room as she approached the long, worktable. “I really don’t care for New York rain. Nothing like Lublin’s showers. They were _soft_ and sweet and made everything smell so fresh, but here the rain is so _angry._ Why is New York always so angry?”

“Because it’s full of angry people,” declared Roxy as she peeled open the soggy bag from Art’s Deli. As she withdrew a bagel, the young mother added softly, “Thanks, Mindy.”

“Oh, no, no.” Mindy tutted gently, but resolutely, when the freedom fighter went to take a bite. The bubbe stayed Roxy’s hand. “You have to have the cream cheese—” Mindy reached into the paper bag for the schmear and a plastic knife. “You can’t eat it dry, no. How will you swallow? You’ll choke. Here, just like this.”

Roxy knew better than to argue with Mindy, so she allowed the fair-haired, older woman to smear cream cheese over the warm bagel and smiled with gratitude before she took her first bite. As Roxy chewed, Mindy nodded, proudly, satisfied. “There you see?”

Five minutes later, Joe arrived—sans umbrella and soaked from the morning’s deluge—and the entire bagel-schmear process repeated. Mindy was a little put out by the whole affair until Lonny showed up, kissed Mindy on the cheek by way of thanks, and demanded to know who ate all the cream cheese. The weapons expert beamed at Lonny’s question, like the cat who swallowed the canary, and fixed both Roxy and Joe with pointed looks as if to say, ‘See? I know what I am talking about…’

“So, where’s our little Jewuper Hero?”

“Don’t make fun, Lonny,” chided Roxy from behind her tinted sunglasses. “Jonah’s been through a lot lately.”

“I’ll say. The kid killed the Wolf—singlehandedly, at that. If only we could advertise his achievements, the kid would be a friggin’ celebrity in the Jewish community. Maybe, dare I say, even more famous than yours truly.”

Mindy snickered. “How flattering.”

One pot of coffee and several bagels later, Harriet and Jonah finally traipsed through the really-not-so-secret door. Finally, all of the Hunters were present for the day’s meeting. 

“Morning, everyone.” Harriet’s greeting was clipped as she sashayed over to the counter to discard her briefcase and set about preparing herself a mug of coffee. While she did so, Jonah pulled out a chair at the head of the table and slumped down. He looked exhausted. “Sorry, we’re late. Those cunts at the bank took fucking ages to process Jonah’s bloody paperwork.”

“But it’s done?” asked Roxy. She and the others filed around the table, taking their seats and gracing the Sister with expectant looks.

“Yes, it’s done. Jonah is now in possession of considerable wealth.”

Lonny flashed a wily grin, lips wrapped around a cigarette. “Mazel tov,” he murmured. The B-list movie star flinched when Joe kicked his shin beneath the table and leveled him with a menacing stare. “What?”

“My saba’s dead. Yeah, mazel tov.” Jonah snorted, though he took Lonny’s careless remark in stride. Elbows on the table, Jonah addressed the room. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

This was usually the part where Meyer said something profound or gave Harriet the nod to debrief the gang. Only, this time, silence lapped the room. More than one pair of eyes darted nervously between Harriet and Jonah. Who would be the first to speak? Who would be the one to lead them? Who would carry on the Hunt in Meyer’s absence? Lonny had money on Harriet, as did Roxy; but Mindy and Joe had faith that Jonah would surprise them all. 

Someone cleared their throat, the coffee pot dripped quietly, and Lonny abruptly interjected, “You know what this place could really use? A record player.”

Roxy rolled her eyes, just as Harriet frowned. “Seriously, Leonard?”

“Or a lava lamp.”

Jonah tapped his thumb against the marble-patterned tabletop. “Look, we stopped one plot, _one_ ploy.” The young hunter lifted his gaze to survey the faces around the room. When no one interrupted and with Harriet continuing to linger by the counter, Jonah pushed forward. “The Nazis? They’re going to keep coming. They’re everywhere. They’re on the streets, they’re on TV, they’re in boardrooms, they’re in politics, seeping in. This isn’t over.”

“Yeah, this is true,” Mindy murmured, somewhat prophetically. “Murray and I…we decoded all those other dates, remember? Not just the night of the blackout. The Fourth Reich, they were there. They were _always_ there. Watergate. The Robert Kennedy assassination. So many dates.”

“But the Colonel’s dead, right?” Lonny asked, brow knitted with concern. “Jersey police pulled her body out of the river.”

Harriet gave a swift nod of correction. “No, the boy’s right. Meyer may have cut the head off the snake, but make no mistake, there will be retribution. We’ve created a vacuum, and there will be infighting for new leadership. This buys us some time, but…I’m afraid we haven’t seen the last of the Fourth Reich.”

“Which is why it can’t be over for us either,” Jonah declared with more authority than some of the others thought the boy could muster. Eyes on the table, Jonah took a deep breath and spoke once more. “This is why we have to do what we have to do. This is why we have to do—what is wrong. Because if not us…then who?” Blue eyes tracked the room as Jonah held his breath, waiting to see if his fellow Hunters remained steadfast in their convictions and would keep up the Hunt despite the loss of their leader and mentor. The young man prayed they would. He couldn’t do this without them.

“This can’t happen ever again. Never again.”

“But how?” Mindy asked just as Joe questioned, “Where would we even begin? Most of the Arc files have been destroyed.”

Harriet leaned against the countertop, taking a sip of her coffee. “Yes, not to mention that Meyer’s identity and this location were well compromised. There’s no telling how many of us they’ve identified. We are no longer safe here.”

“Add in the fact that Agent Morris is gonna be on us, on us every step of the way.” Jonah sighed. “She’ll hunt us while we hunt them.”  
  
Mouth drooped in a frown, Joe looked at the kid who less than two weeks prior had called the veteran on the verge of tears, hands covered in the Wolf’s blood. “So, what are you suggesting?”

Jonah’s lips parted, but no noise came forth.

They had funding, they had motivation—but Harriet and Joe were right; Meyer’s house was no longer an acceptable base of operations, and now that all of the major players left on the board—the Wolf and the Colonel—were dead, the Hunters had no forward trajectory without the Arc files. Under the pressure of four expectant Hunters seeking his direction, Jonah realized in that moment that he had no fucking clue where to lead them to next. He was all ready to rile up the crew to fight some Nazis, but now that the hour was upon them, Jonah had no fucking idea where to even begin and was now making a fool of himself just as he was trying to win the confidence of the team. What kind of pre-ejaculation-esque bullshit was this?

Lonny finished his cigarette, stubbing out the butt in an ashtray, before he shot Joe what could only be described as a dubious glance. Beside him, Roxy sent Jonah a sympathetic smile.

Great, so not only was he fucking up already, but he was being pitied for it.

“Perhaps—” Harriet’s voice sliced through the awkward atmosphere. “—we don’t hunt Nazis in America.”

Her heels clacked against the floor as she sauntered over to the table to drop a file folder before Mindy, various leaflets, personnel folders, and a map spilling out. The women began flipping through the paperwork as the Sister elaborated, “My contact sent a dossier—Die Spinne, they called it. A highly covert operation in which Hitler’s highest ranking lieutenants, the leaders of the Nazi Regime, where shuttled out of Nazi Germany and disappeared into Europe.”

Mindy passed Jonah a typed listed—it was in German, but Jonah could make out the names of two SS officers and a Spanish city. The list also looked to contain dates and times. Jonah had never been to Europe, but he figured this was as a good a time as any for a vacation. Not only because there was nothing left for Jonah in New York—not now, not with his grandparents and his best friend dead and Cheeks going off to college—, but also because he had turned his back on the Hunt once before. He couldn’t afford to do it again.

It was like he’d told the Wolf: Jewish vengeance was his birthright. There was no going back for Jonah, not anymore.

“So, you twats,” Harriet grinned. “Perhaps it’s time we take our expertise across the pond and kill these fucking Shites of the Round Table?”  
  
It was Roxy who responded first—with a sarcastic chortle. “You can’t be serious. I can’t leave New York. I’ve got a daughter.”  
  
“Yes, and don’t you want to keep her safe?”

“It’s not that simple, Harriet,” Joe came to Roxy’s defense. “Besides, how would this even work? We can’t just pop over to Germany and start executing Nazis. We don’t have any connections there. No safehouses. No—”

The spy snorted. “Speak for yourself. I’ve got plenty of contacts, and I’m sure one of my old MI6 handler would be able to set us up with a safehouse in London to use as our base.”

“And we’ve got plenty of money,” Jonah piped up. Edging forward in his seat, the plan visibly unfolding in his gaze, the codebreaker mumbled to himself for a moment before he cleared his throat, and added, “We’ll salvage what equipment and supplies we can from here, and then we can use Meyer’s money and the money from the bank robbery for whatever else we need. Plane tickets, weapons, whatever.”

“Again, what about Malika?”

Mindy reached over the table to pat Roxy’s hand. With a quivering smile, the bubbe told Jonah and Harriet, “This is a good plan. There were so many Nazis that escaped to Europe, blending into the big city crowds and escaping the war trails. This is a righteous path.” Mindy’s lips tremble, and her gaze dropped to where her hand rested atop Roxy’s. “But I am old, now. And without my Murray…” The weapons expert drew a shaky breath. “This path is no longer mine.”

“Mindy—”

“No, Lonny, darling, no. I will go to West Chester. My daughter has invited me to live with her and Benjamin, and I am going. Amy and the boys are coming over next week to help me pack up the house.” Lonny and Harriet both reared up to protest, but Mindy silenced them with a raised hand. “It is done, my loves. Consider me _re_ tired.”

Roxy rolled her hand over to grip Mindy’s in an affectionate hold. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Mindy reward the freedom fighter with a shrug. “I’m old. It’s what happens. Now, about Malika—” The fair-haired woman’s voice grew considerably fiercer. “It would be my privilege to look after her, should you choose to adventure in Europe. I would be honored to keep an eye on the kindelah. You know I will protect her like she is my own.”

“Mindy, I can’t ask you to do that.”

She swatted at Roxy with her handkerchief. “Ah, what is there to ask? You are _family._ This is what we do.” 

“What about you two?” Jonah asked of the boys, gifting Roxy with a spare moment to consider Mindy’s offer. Joe and Lonny shared a glance over the table, and Jonah barreled forward. “If you want to back out, now’s the time.”

Lonny took a moment to very deliberately lite another cigarette, the rest of the Hunters watching as he painstakingly tapped the cigarette loose from the pack and brought it to his lips before he fished his lighter out from the front pocket of his jacket. Hovering over Mindy’s shoulder, Harriet rolled her eyes and muttered, ‘for fuck’s sake,’ as Lonny took his sweet time drawing his first puff. When he released his next breath, smoke billowed around his ears. “Yeah, I could definitely use a getaway.”

“You can be such an ass, Lonny,” muttered Harriet.

Lonny merely grinned.

“Joe? What about you?”

The gang’s collective gaze shifted to the Vietnam veteran at the actor’s question.

“I’m in.” Joe’s eyes, however, remained on Roxy as he replied, and when the freedom fighter smiled softly back at him, then at Mindy, before she slowly agreed with a quiet, ‘Me, too,’ Joe visibly relaxed. He nodded. “Good, good.” 

Jonah, too, breathed a sigh of relief. Though the Hunters had lost the elders of the group—all four Holocaust survivors now dead, or in Mindy’s case, retired—, Jonah was pleased that everyone else was prepared to stay the course. “Excellent. Let’s find these fascist fucks.” He threw the report that Mindy had handed him back on to the piled contents of Harriet’s dossier and reclined in his seat.

With another drag from his cigarette, Lonny murmured, “Eastern Europe loves Lonny Flash,” and that was that.

* * *

It took the Hunters nearly a fortnight to settle their affairs in America and prepare for their European journey.

Jonah packed all the Arc files with help from what was left of Meyer’s house staff. The meager remnants that were salvaged from the fire were then shipped to England, where Harriet’s handler had procured the gang a safehouse. As Jonah had decreed, the lot of Meyer’s wealth—now belonging to the young man—was combined with the stolen money from the dirty Swiss bank to back the Hunters’ exploits abroad. The codebreaker also sold Meyer’s mansion home and liquidated most of his late grandfather’s assets. He had kept only a few possessions to remind him of his saba, as well as his safta’s house. Though he suspected he wouldn’t return to New York any time soon, Jonah couldn’t bring himself to part with his childhood home the same way that he had with Meyer’s Park Avenue estate.

Roxy found herself playing host to Mindy, who had invited herself to the freedom fighter’s Harlem apartment. As Roxy packed her things for the upcoming European adventure, Mindy busied herself braiding Malika’s hair and teaching the young girl how to bake rugelach cookies. It was important to Mindy that Malika feel familiar with and comfortable around her, so as to make it easier to keep an eye on the child while her mother was away. Though she was reluctant to take Mindy’s packing advise and slightly begrudged Mindy tidying up her mother’s apartment, Roxy’s heart was lightened to watch a woman she had come to know like family playing with her only daughter. It certainly made the prospect of long months away from Malika seem at least a little less daunting.

Lonny stopped off in Jersey for a weekend to see his parents before he absconded with the Hunters. His father was unsurprisingly happy to harp about the dismal turn in Lonny’s career of late, but Lonny’s mother’s joy at her boy’s return home was more than enough to compensate. Mrs. Flazenstein prepared nothing short of a feast that Shabbat—a braised brisket, latkes in schmaltz, matzoh ball soup, and a chocolate babka loaf. Lonny ate more than his fill, and when dinner was over, he sat with his mother on the back stoop and looked at the stars as she sipped her evening brandy, as they had done at least once a week during the actor’s childhood. On the morning of his departure, Lonny was stopped by his father on the way to the car by a hand on the shoulder and the quiet observation that Lonny seemed “…better.” It wasn’t much, but to Lonny, his father’s passing approval was everything.

Joe’s affairs were settled quickly and without fuss. Since his return from Vietnam, his existence hadn’t extended much beyond the occasional VA meeting and the Hunt. It was easy, therefore, to quietly conclude the New York chapter of his life. He’d collected what he would need in Europe and shipped the rest of his effects to his parents’ place in California. Then, it was all a matter of meeting a few buddies for a drink and waiting for the flight—the same deployment ritual he’d practiced three times before. 

Harriet was, perhaps, the busiest of them all. On top of packing her things, Harriet found herself tied up by a string of phone calls to old contacts, arranging transportation and housing and the necessary next steps for the Hunters to transition easily to England. Her task list was seemingly endless, but Harriet had, since a child, thrived in chaos. As a last measure towards tying up loose ends in America, the Sister made sure to mail Mindy’s photographs of the stolen Jewish property to the United Nations General Assembly, as the War Crimes Tribunal had long since been disbanded. Along with the photographic evidence of Nazi looting and Swiss collaboration, Harriet also enclosed a folder containing information on the bank and Frederic Hauser. In the event that the UN decided not to act on the intelligence, she made sure to send a copy of it all to Simon Wiesenthal’s office, whom the spy knew would pursue justice ‘til the last. Once again, Harriet had leveled yet another score against the Nazi cunts—and she couldn’t have been more pleased.

When their day of departure arrive, the five Hunters met at LaGuardia airport. Collectively, they lingered before the ticket counters—a Catholic spy, a Vietnam veteran, a lock-picking freedom fighter, a Tony-award winning actor, and a codebreaking genius—and took a silent moment to acknowledge the journey that awaited them on the other side of the Atlantic.

“Right.” It was Jonah that took the first step. “This’ll be a real shit show if we miss the flight.”

* * *

The tarmac at Heathrow trembled beneath Jonah’s feet. Beside him, Joe hefted his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and slid his Aviators into place on the bridge of his nose. Roxy and Lonny assembled around them, and Harriet, naturally, took the lead. The blonde spy gave the Hunters a sardonic grin.

“Welcome to England, you twats.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not Jewish and I don’t speak Hebrew, so please let me know if you spot anything incorrect or offensive. <3


	3. the Sawyers Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look of utter condescension captured Harriet’s face as she smiled patronizingly down at where Lonny’s form was slumped and half-hidden within the pastel cushions of the sofa. “As always, Leonard, thank you for your contribution. Truly, I do not know where we would be without you.” 
> 
> The actor smirked, unironically, and shot the spy with a finger gun. “Just doin’ my part.” 
> 
> OR: The Hunters settle into their new, English accommodations, and Harriet and Lonny argue. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn’t feature much Nazi hunting, but it _does_ feature some much-needed team building. But don’t worry, we’ll pick the Hunt back up next chapter. 
> 
> Also, Lonny just sort of stole this chapter.

“Look—” Lonny’s tone, a delicate mixture of exasperation and defensiveness, grated on Harriet’s nerves as the actor continued to prattle on with his evaluation of the gang’s new safehouse. “I’m not saying I don’t appreciate you finding us a place and all. I’m just saying it’s a bit cramped, ya dig?”

Poised on the bottom step, the staircase leading to the bedrooms looming behind her, Harriet wondered if the other Hunters who be truly upset if the nun decided to murder Lonny Flash.

_THEN_

It had been just after six in the evening local time when the Hunters had saddled up to the curb in a rental van, driven by Harriet—“on the wrong side of the _road,_ ” as Lonny had also noted—, outside a modest two-story brick home that sported white trimmed windows and a thriving hedgerow.

“It looks so…quaint.”

Roxy’s initial observation had then been echoed by Jonah’s mumblings about the Hunters’ apparent metamorphosis into “a fucked-up version of the British _Brady Bunch_.” Emerging from the van behind them as if a man recently freed from prison, Lonny had stretched on the sidewalk like a cat and gave their new home a weary once-over. “This is it?”

Upon their arrival, the team had been greeted by an older woman whom Harriet had referred to as Lottie. The stranger didn’t have much to say as she relinquished the house keys to their resident nun and bid them all a good evening, gone just as quickly as she’d come. “We have a fucking land lady?” Jonah had asked, his disbelief obvious, as Lottie retreated down the street, walking at a meager but purposeful pace toward the setting sun.

“Yes, indeed. That’s what makes our safehouse so bloody safe.”

Poking around the mail slot in the door, Joe had nodded appreciatively. “If things look normal…” Then, perhaps, they would draw less attention from the outside world. One could see the obvious advantages to blending in, especially given that they were now in a foreign country. The Hunters could no longer afford to live in opulence and excess as they had under Meyer’s leadership.

Inside the row house, the crew had made quick work of a tour and were less than thrilled to discover Harriet’s definition of normality. Whereas back in New York they’d had an entire wing of Meyer’s mansion for use as headquarters—not to mention the luxury of retreating to their own private homes at the end of a tiresome day of killing Nazis—, the Hunters would now be forced to make due with shared bedrooms and a single, quite small living area as a base of operations.

Once the brief house tour had concluded, Harriet stood at the foot of the stairs and was forced to endure her teammates’ harsh appraisal of their new living situation—and none were more vocal than Leonard Flazenstein.

_NOW_

“Look—I’m not saying I don’t appreciate you finding us a place and all. I’m just saying it’s a bit cramped, ya dig?”

A murderous look fluttered across Harriet’s face, the Sister’s arms crossed over her chest, her back straight in defiance.

“Well, it is certainly…” Roxy winced, searching for the right word. “—intimate.”

“That’s one word for it. Also, can we just talk about the fact that we’re not even _in_ London? We’re in the fuckin’ ‘burbs, man. The _British_ ‘burbs. Lonny Flash _doesn’t live in the suburbs._ ”

Joe smirked from behind his Aviators. “He does now.” 

Harriet glared at the lot of them. “This house is worth nearly one million pounds, you ungrateful twits. It has a bloody AGA, for Christ’s sake.”

Testing out the springy, floral sofa beneath the front windows in the living room, Joe frowned and asked, “What’s an AGA?”

Given the five hour time difference between England and the East Coast of America, the Hunters were seriously dragging that first evening, defeated by jetlag, stiff from the long flight, and a little jumpy—it wasn’t every day that one travels to a foreign country to launch a multi-national monster hunt. Nonetheless, when Harriet recommended that they go on a walk to familiarize themselves with Feltham, the group agreed if only because the house’s refrigerator was empty, and they would all be in need of food at some point. The English town, a thirty minute train ride from Waterloo in Central London, was nothing spectacular, and in the dim light of dusk, Feltham was quiet save for the occasional rumble of a passing car.

Though it was late August and summer had not yet abandoned England, there was a chill in the air now that the sun had set behind the row houses. In the early dark, the evening had just enough bite that Roxy unconsciously huddled closer to Joe as the gang strolled along the winding streets of the sleepy English town. The young mother had never been outside of America before—frankly, she’d hardly left New York except for the occasional summer spent at her great aunt’s house in Georgia. Though, she supposed, Feltham had the same sorts of things one might find in any town—lots of private homes, a post office, varied restaurants including a pizza joint and a Chinese take away, all punctuated by phone booths and mail boxes, telephone poles and lampposts—, the style and manner of everything was _different_. Hell, even the colors seemed somehow transformed to Roxy’s eye.

On the high street, Harriet ushered the Hunters passed the Asda grocery store. “We’ll sort food tomorrow. Let’s just find a pub. I don’t know about you lot, but I could use a drink.”

Her suggestion was met with universal agreement.

The rag tag bunch of Nazi slayers ended up a plain and unassuming pub called Sawyers Arms; it was the oldest pub in Feltham and would soon become the Hunters’ local.

“Alright, amigos, what’s everybody drinking?” Lonny offered to start off the evening by buying the first round. Harriet accompanied him to the counter to place their drink order while the others ferreted out a booth that was large enough to accommodate them all. The actor flashed the barman a star-worthy grin, delighted to see a little satellite radio tucked behind the counter. Lonny bobbed his head along to Queen’s newest single “We Are the Champions” as he rattled off his friends’ drink requests, adding a pint of some English stout he didn’t recognize for himself.

“A whiskey and a cider,” Harriet added with what Lonny could only describe as some sort of secret British exchange with the Englishman behind the bar, a _we are both of this land, ignore the American idiot_ look.

“Cider?” Lonny echoed, incredulous, peeling his gaze away from the Brit behind the bar. The spy pinned him with deadly, narrow eyes, the gesture akin to a hawk seconds away from maiming and devouring its prey. “Not a fucking word.”

“Cider,” he repeated at a stage whisper to himself as he tossed a few pounds on the countertop—he was glad Harriet had forced them to exchange their currency back in New York—, gathered the tray of pints, and headed to the table.

Roxy and Joe accepted their pints with cheers, mischief and merry in their eyes. It was all a bit thrilling, wasn’t it? Their first night as international hunters of Nazi bastards. Jonah, however, appeared a bit cagey as he half-mumbled his thanks and immediately gulped down half his beer. As the rest of the Hunters slipped easily, naturally into conversation, Jonah cuddled his drink in the corner of the booth and let his eyes wander around the pub. They were really going to have to do something about the kid, honestly.

A nudge to his shoulder pulled Lonny from his musings. Roxy rewarded the actor with soft eyes and a gentle smile when he glanced her way. The freedom fighter motioned the stout dampening the beer mat in front of him. “Should you be drinking that?”

The question was asked without malice and with the slightest touch of concern. A year ago, Lonny might’ve been insulted by the insinuation, but he knew Roxy—more importantly, he knew himself. So, the actor wrapped his fingers around the sweating glass and nodded, replying sincerely without the faintest trace of humor or hubris. “Alcohol was never my poison. Don’t get me wrong, literally everything else _was,_ but I’ve never had a problem with drinking. If you see me hoarding bottles of pain killers, then it’ll be time to stage an intervention.”

“If you say so.” Roxy smiled, accepting him at his word, and Lonny found himself abruptly consumed with gratitude. His had been a long, tumultuous journey, but he’d finally found a place where he belonged just as he was.

“Never would’ve guessed that place would be in England…”

“Sorry?”

“Hmm?” Lonny took a sip of his beer. “Never mind. Say, you know, Brian May is from Feltham.” The blank look that Roxy handed him—honestly, she should be way more impressed—prompted the actor to elaborate. “Brian May…world-renowned guitarist and song writer? Currently associated with a little band called Queen? One of their songs is actually playing in this very bar—”

“Pub,” Harriet corrected, automatically, before she immediately resumed her chat with Joe.

“—right now?” 

“I don’t listen to Queen.”

“What?”

Roxy shrugged. “That’s white people music. I’d rather listen to the O’Jays or Curtis Mayfield.”

At the name of the soul singer, Lonny’s tune suddenly changed, his entire body becoming animated. He slung his arm around Roxy’s shoulders to rest against the back of the booth as he twisted to face her. “You know, I met him a few years back. Yeah, at this party on the LA strip when he was in town promoting _Superfly._ ”

“Yeah, man, that movie was far out.” She grinned behind her glass. Roxy had seen that movie twice in the theatre, once with a few of her girlfriends and once with Darnell before the divorce. “Were you involved in it?”

The actor’s face fell. “Um, no.”

If Roxy had to hide a giggle, it wasn’t readily obvious to Lonny. Taking pity on the struggling actor, she artfully redirected. Wiggling her eyebrows, Roxy coyly murmured, “So, was Mayfield a fan of Lonny Flash?”

“Oh, absolutely.” The man in question beamed, then smirked with enough ego to fuel Freud’s entire life’s work. “Isn’t everybody?”

Across the booth, Joe chimed in. “Richard Dreyfus isn’t.”

“Why would you mention him? No, seriously, man, why would you even bring him up? You know how I feel about—”

“Freddie Mercury also lived in Feltham as a boy after his family immigrated,” Harriet blessed the table by cutting off Lonny’s rambling rant. “His parents still have a home here, I believe.” At the actor’s flabbergasted expression, the Sister raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “What? Did Mr. Mercury never mention?”

True to form, Lonny recovered quickly. He sipped his stout and gave a half-shrug. “Just never took you for a Queen fan. Aren’t they a little risqué for a nun?”

“A nun _who_ kills people.” Jonah corrected somewhat absentmindedly as if to note that there was nothing about Harriet the team could discover that would be more averse to her habit than this. She could be a prostitute or the Pope herself, and yet, the members of their renegade team would simply shrug as if to say, “That’s Harriet, for you. A Sister of many—varied—talents.”

The conversation spiraled from there, and the evening progressed in a sleepy sort of fashion. The Hunters drank their pints, talked English customs with Harriet, and enjoyed both the cozy atmosphere of Sawyers Arms and the good company, each secretly wondering all the while what the following days would bring.

After two or three hours, Lonny sat forward. “I don’t know about the rest of you assholes, but Lonny Flash is fuckin’ _starving._ ”

“Yeah,” Jonah agreed. “I could eat.” The young brunette stood and followed Lonny through the intricate maze of tables and booths to the bar, the pair pointedly ignoring Harriet’s knowing smirk.

Jonah propped his arms on the counter and leaned against the bar, glancing about for a bowl of peanuts or potato chips. There were none to be found. “You guys serve food at this joint?” Much to the boys’ disappointment, the sparse menu at Sawyers Arms consisted of only two regular meals—fish and chips, and Shepherd’s pie—with a proper roast available on Sundays. Lonny regarded the menu dubiously. “I don’t suppose you have a kosher kitchen?”

When the barman grunted ominously, Lonny tossed down the menu with an exaggerated frown. “Hey, whoa, okay, hombre. Está bien, chévere, alright?”

In the end, they ordered a couple plates of chips, which they’d finally realized were actually french fries, and as the pair of New Yorkers waited on their food, Jonah regarded his older companion. “Why do you speak so much Spanish?”

“Mhmm? Oh, there are a lot of immigrants in my neighborhood in Jersey. Kind of grew up speaking it. In fact,” Lonny shared a conspiratorial look with Jonah. “—I lost my virginity to Angie Rodriquez. Haven’t been able to think of the word ‘ _papi’_ in the same way since.”

A moment or two more, and the barman dropped their food unceremoniously on the countertop and stared at the pair of Jews, _hard._ When Jonah asked for condiments, the Englishman huffed a sigh and supplied a bottle of vinegar and a tiny tub of ketchup. He surrendered them as if their loss pained him a great deal.

“Do you think he hates all Americans, or just us?”

As they boys meandered back to the table, fries in hand, Lonny began to muse aloud. “Speaking of Angie Rodriquez…you need to get laid, Jewper Trooper.”

Roxy, Lonny, Mindy, Harriet, Joe—they all noticed how Jonah had been beyond tense since Meyer’s death. Even in the aftermath of his revenge against the Wolf, the young hunter had not relaxed. He carried his every trouble upon his shoulders, a Jewish Atlas struggling through life. It was clear that Jonah had not left his woes behind after the last few exhaustive months in New York, but had instead, brought his turmoil with him to Europe where his pain and misery might continue to plague him—extra travel baggage. And now with the added bonus of his awkward power struggle with Harriet over the Hunters’ vacant leadership position, Jonah appeared to be drowning. The boy had such a fire within him that sometimes the others forgot just how young he was. Only now, Jonah’s powerful flame had been reduced to mere candlelight, easily extinguished by a simple gust of wind.

“Yeah,” Lonny nodded, almost to himself. “You need to get laid, kid.”

As if summoned by the mustached-man’s words, a young girl in a long chiffon scarf and flared jeans caught Jonah’s eye. She stood at the bar, her dainty fingers relaxed on a half empty pint, and she sported a slight grin, eyes alight with cheer and a general _joie de vivre_ as she chatted with her somewhat mousy-looking friend. The hunter watched her, unconsciously cataloguing her movements and subtle mannerisms, internally marking the many differences between her and a certain ebony beauty. There was nothing about this stranger that was similar to Carol Lockhart.

Jonah couldn’t decide if he loved or hated her for it.

As the fates would have it, the distinction was irrelevant as Lonny drew the entire table’s attention to the woman and Jonah’s blossoming interest in her. “Ooh, a shiksa goddess? Nice call.” 

“You mean the woman who looks like a poster child for the League of German Girls? Miss Blonde Hair and Blue Eyes?” Harriet snorted, sipping on her third cider, the richly purple liquid still a bit bubbly in the glass.

“Harriet, _you_ have blonde hair.” 

The nun’s lips pursed, her expression souring at Roxy’s observation. “Yes, but at least my eyes are fucking brown.”

“So, she’s a bit Aryan looking. She’s still a total nosh. Look at those ti—” Lonny withered at the duel warnings flashing across the faces of the female Hunters in the dim pub light, and he swiftly switched tracks like the chameleon he was, now more subdued. “I bet she’s really smart,” he amended, then slumped a bit in the booth and hid behind his drink. Across the table, Joe was torn between snickering and rolling his eyes. In the end, the veteran settled for a little of both. “Smooth, Flash.”

An aggressive hand gesture was Lonny’s gracious response.

Jonah regarded their interaction. “But I’m the kid, right?” Sometimes, he marveled at the fact that Lonny and Joe were both nearly a decade older than he was. Fingering the sleek body of his pint glass, Jonah sloshed around the dregs of his beer before he tossed back the rest of the contents in a single gulp. “Screw it. I’m gonna do it.” Jonah rose from the table with renewed purpose as the phoenix rises from the ashes, reborn. “I’m gonna fuck the shiksa goddess.”

“That’s the spirit!” Lonny clapped, his joy genuine, as Joe wolf whistled his own encouragements. “Mazel tov, my friend.” 

The Hunters watched Jonah’s retreating form as he made his way towards the fair-haired stunner, and with a smirk, Harriet slipped a five pound note on the table top. “What do you want to bet the little shit can’t find his way home later?”

The table shared a round of snickers before Joe stood. It was time for another round, and it was his turn to buy.

* * *

The round clock above the stove top told the Hunters that it was just after two a.m. when the cheery, if somewhat inebriated, gang returned to their little row house that evening, sans Jonah who had slunk off somewhere with the shiksa goddess for some much-needed stress release.

Lonny toed off his shoes in the entry way, Harriet set about making a cup of tea—Joe had been amused, “Of course, tea is the only thing the kitchen has pre-stocked.”—, Roxy disappeared into the bathroom to remove her make-up before bed, and Joe carried out a quick security check of the garden and house, making sure all entryways were shut and locked. 

Before the gang dispersed for bed, Harriet called them to a sloppy attention. “Get some sleep tonight, you lot. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“Gonna hit the ground running?” asked Joe, to which the Sister gave a swift nod, “Exactly. We have an appointment at half-nine across London. We’ll need to catch the train just after half-eight.”

Lonny corrected her, lazily, his speech softened by drink. “I think you mean eight-thirty, lady.”

“An appointment?” Joe ignored the actor. “Where?”

“The Wiener Library in Manchester Square.”

Roxy’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “I’m sorry, did she just say a library?”

“What are we gonna bore the Nazis to death?”

A look of utter condescension captured Harriet’s face as she smiled patronizingly down at where Lonny’s form was slumped and half-hidden within the pastel cushions of the sofa. “As always, Leonard, thank you for your contribution. Truly, I do not know where we would be without you.”

The actor smirked, unironically, and shot the spy with a finger gun. “Just doin’ my part.”

Joe sighed and reached for his teammate. “Yeah, alright, Flash, let’s get you to bed. You heard the boss lady, we’ve got an early start.”

“Ooh,” murmured Roxy. “Don’t let Jonah hear you calling her that.”

And so, the gang dispersed. Harriet finished her tea in the kitchen while Roxy sauntered off to their shared bedroom, and Joe tucked Lonny into bed in the room the actor would be sharing with Jonah before the veteran marched back downstairs to his own bed, which was shoved against the far wall in the backroom that led out into the garden.

As they each settled in for the evening, the Hunters all spared a thought for young Jonah, hoping and praying that he would safely find his way back to them before the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next, the gang meets someone new who just might have all the intelligence on escaped Nazis they could ever dream of…


	4. That Girl Rachel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the center of the room stood a tall table at which there hovered a woman with long blonde hair and choppy fringed bangs à la Stevie Nicks. Her long neck was hidden by an olive turtleneck and a flowy, white skirt tickled her ankles. She was young, closer to Roxy’s or Jonah’s age, and while she looked the part of a harmless young professional, there was an undeniable air of authority that clung to her.
> 
> With a stifled sigh, Harriet made the introductions. “Roxy, wankers, may I present Rachel Epstein.”
> 
> OR: The Hunters make a new friend. At least, they _hope_ she's a friend. And Jonah and Harriet have an explosive argument about the fate of the Hunters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to bloodredcherry and ontariomilk for their continued support of this story! <3

“…okay, sweetheart. You got it, girl. Mommy loves you, alright?” Roxy’s fingers wrapped around the curled telephone cord as the freedom fighter fought back tears and said her goodbyes to both her daughter and her mother before she placed the telephone receiver back on the hook. Propped against the kitchen counter near the AGA stove, Roxy sniffed a bit and closed her eyes, Malika’s voice still ringing in her ears, precious and soft, but distant, the quality dampened equally by the phone and the ocean between them.

When he padded gently into the kitchen, Joe’s hair was damp from the shower. His gaze was kind and knowing. “How is she?”

Roxy’s eyes were watery, and she had to look away from Joe’s face to gather herself before she could answer. “She sounded…fine.” Her lips quivered as she asked the veteran, “Am I a terrible mother for wishing she was more upset?”

A handful of tears spilled over and trickled down her cheeks. This was all the encouragement Joe needed to cross the linoleum floor and pull the young mother into his arms. She sagged against him instantly, and Joe was confident he’d made the right call.

Her words were muffled by his shirt, her face buried with her forehead against his collarbone. “I’ve never been this far away from her before.”

“We don’t have to do this, Roxy,” he told her, arms holding her steadily. “We can always go home.”

“We?”

A fierce and sudden blush swept across the Japanese-American’s cheeks, and he stammered ungracefully to reply. “I mean, I mean— _you._ You don’t have to—”

Before Joe could mumble a finish or Roxy could retort, Lonny stumbled into the kitchen, hairy chest on full display, and the couple broke apart quickly, both ignoring the sleepy but curious glances the actor was busy shooting their way. Joe deflected, motioning Lonny’s state of undress. “What, didn’t pack enough shirts?”

The Jew ran a hand through his chest hair. “It’s the morning. It’s my time to be _free_.” Lonny glanced around, peeked in the fridge, then opened a few cabinets—they were all empty. “So, uh, what’s for breakfast?”

* * *

Jonah returned to the Hunters’ safehouse just after seven that morning, and roughly an hour later, the gang left, heading to the station to buy their tickets and catch the train into London to meet with Harriet’s mysterious contact at the Wiener Library.

“I’m sorry, _library_?” Jonah repeated.

Roxy nudged him in solidarity. “That’s what I said.”

The crew were all a bit grumpy from a lack of coffee and breakfast. So, after they caught the tube—“I think you mean, _subway_ ,” Lonny corrected, to which Harriet rolled her eyes and replied, “No, as a matter of fact, Leonard, I do not. As we are no longer in New York, I most certainly fucking mean _tube.”_ —, they stopped at a petite café near Bond Street station. As the others quickly placed their coffee orders and snagged a piece of fruit for breakfast, Lonny was devastated by the lack of baked breakfast goods and proceeded to bitch and moan about finding a good deli. Surely, there was at least one Jew in London who could make a decent bagel.

“Just shut up and eat a bloody apple. Christ.”

“Aren’t you supposed to do the—” Lonny fumbled to make an ‘T’ over his chest, poorly imitating the Catholics’ sign of the cross. “—when you say the Lord’s name, or something?”

Harriet steeled her gaze and snapped, “Do I school you on Judaism? No? Then, how’s abouts you stay the fuck out of my religion, aye?”

Strolling away from the bickering duo, Jonah took a sip of his coffee and murmured, “When are they going to get over themselves and fuck, already?” Beside him, Roxy and Joe snickered. 

The Hunters arrived in Manchester Square at precisely twenty minutes passed nine o’clock. 

Harriet led them to an immaculate white brick, English townhouse with wrought iron railings on the windows and curling down the front steps. The hedgerows were perfectly trimmed, and the gated garden that sat in the middle of the city square was well tended with a small but elaborate fountain in the middle. Though there was no sign indicating the building as a library, there was a doorbell and a security camera posted above the entryway.

Roxy eyed the building’s security measures, skeptically. “I thought you said this was a library?”

“Yes, it is. A very special library.”

The nun buzzed the doorbell, and a moment later, a distinctly female and British voice spoke through a speaker embedded beneath the ringer. “ _Yes_?”

“My name is Harriet. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Rachel.”

“ _Oh yes, our small group tour. One moment please_.”

Joe’s brow furrowed. “Tour? We’re going on a tour…of a library?”

Harriet sighed. Really, was it too much trouble to ask the group to have a little faith in her?

A receptionist greeted the gang as they entered what served as a foyer to the library. In the midst of the group, Lonny let out a low whistle. The place was, in his expert opinion, _fancy as fuck._ The walls were composed of rich, mahogany wood panels that matched the elegant and varnished floors, atop which sat thick, Persian rugs of intricate design in deep reds and oranges and lovely shades of yellow and white. There was a marble staircase that wound around a classy iron banister to the upper floors of the library, but the receptionist—a woman well passed her prime yet still quite nimble on her feet—led them around the beautiful staircase to another, less ostentatious set of stairs that descended into the basement of the townhouse.

The elderly woman escorted the Hunters down the staircase and further still down a long hallway with floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets all along the right wall. This hall opened into a deep, windowless room wherein the walls were lined with bookshelves. On some shelves, there sat books, of course, but many were home to cardboard file boxes labelled with all sorts of titles—city names (Amsterdam, Brussels, Frankfurt), dates (pre-1933, 1939, 1942-44), topics (deportation, ghettos, Judenrat). In the center of the room stood a tall table at which there hovered a woman with long blonde hair and choppy fringed bangs à la Stevie Nicks. Her long neck was hidden by an olive turtleneck and a flowy, white skirt tickled her ankles. She was young, closer to Roxy’s or Jonah’s age, and while she looked the part of a harmless young professional, there was an undeniable air of authority that clung to her.

“Welcome to the archives,” their guide announced. “Rachel—” The receptionist addressed the young woman at the table, her eyes roaming the documents spread out before her. “—I’ll leave you lot to it, shall I?”

“Thank you, Mary.” The young woman’s accent wasn’t British, Joe noted. Moreover, it was clear that English wasn’t her first language. The veteran rolled her words around in his mouth as if they were his own. Northern European, perhaps? The young woman waited until the receptionist’s footsteps were echoing up the stairs before she spoke once again. “I was wondering if you were going to show.”

“Begging your pardon, but you’ll note that I am precisely on time.” Harriet stepped forward, distinguishing herself from the crew of Nazi hunters; however, she made no move to embrace or acknowledge the woman, otherwise. So, Joe observed, while there was a familiarity here, there was not friendship.

The woman hummed in acknowledgement at Harriet’s retort. “Well, yes, I wasn’t sure if you were going to be able to corral the—” The archivist gestured to the Hunters. “—oh, you know, rally the troops, and all that.”

“Consider us rallied,” Lonny drawled as he moved to shake the woman’s hand. But the archivist remained engrossed in her work—her gaze had yet to rise from the tabletop—and either she did not see or simply did not care for the outstretched hand that hovered, patiently, for several awkward seconds before it fell limply to Lonny’s side.

With a stifled sigh, Harriet made the introductions. “Roxy, wankers, may I present Rachel Epstein.”

Finally, the woman paused in her work long enough to glance up and smile politely at the group. “Roxy,” she nodded her greetings. “Wankers…”

“Joe,” the veteran announced himself.

“And I’m Lonny…Lonny Flash, but I bet you knew that already.” The actor made removing his sunglasses a theatrical affair. “Epstein, huh? So, we got us another Jew.”

“Yes, however—” She pinned Harriet with a knowing look. “—my mother converted to Catholicism and is quite devout in her new faith.”

Lonny’s eyes widened to a comical degree. He spun his head around to accuse the Sister. “Oh my God, oh my God, she’s—!”

“She is _not_ my daughter, Leonard.”

The woman, Rachel, gave a soft but humorless laugh. “No, indeed.”

“I’m sorry,” Roxy spoke up. “But can someone explain to me why we’re here?”

“Right.” Rachel nodded, thoughtfully. “Follow me.”

The archivist led them back down the hall of filing cabinets to a storage cupboard underneath the stairs. Inside, there were several shipping boxes with packing labels from America—New York, in fact. She gestured the stacks, lazily. “I believe you’re here, in part, for these.”

The Hunters, sans their resident nun, stared into the cupboard owlishly until Jonah realized. “These are the arc files…”

“Yes, Jonah, they are.” Harriet elaborated, “I didn’t want to leave the files unattended until we arrived, so Rachel has been kind enough to keep an eye on them for us.”

Joe turned to the archivist. “You said ‘in part.’ So, what’s reason number two?”

Rachel returned the team to the windowless room, which they now understood to be the library’s basement archives, and Rachel assumed her spot at the table. She motioned for the Hunters to join her, and when they dutifully gathered around, Rachel gifted a sheet of paper to Joe. It was a receipt for the purchase of two train tickets from Hamburg, Germany, to Paris, France, dated October 1934. The gang passed the document around and began to leaf through others like it on the table as Rachel explained, “We are the Wiener Library, named after our founder and patron, Alfred Wiener. After the Great War, Dr. Wiener, a Jew, returned to Germany to find that the right-wing had concocted some stab-in-the-back theory that blamed the Jews for the fall of the German Reich and their national disgrace at the Treaty of Versailles summit. Dr. Wiener began working with pro-Jewish organizations to combat the rising national antisemitism, but when Hitler published _Mein Kampf_ in ’25, he understood that the National Socialists were a much greater threat than anyone had realized.”

She waved a hand to indicate the file boxes around them. “Dr. Wiener started collecting everything he could on the Nazi party. Pamphlets, newspaper articles, books, all manner of propaganda. He wanted to use the information to form campaigns _against_ the Nazis and to undermine their work.”

“Did it work?” asked Roxy, her tone soft, inspired by the man’s work.

Rachel frowned. “Yes, and no. When Hitler came to power in 1933, Dr. Wiener fled with his family to Amsterdam. He wanted to protect them, you see? Unfortunately, he had to leave behind most of his original archive, which we now believe was later destroyed by Nazis. _But—_ ” Her words took on a more hopeful note. “—in Amsterdam, Dr. Wiener established the Jewish Central Information Office and continued his work. Then, after the November pogroms of 1938—”

“You mean Kristallnacht?” Jonah asked. 

“Yes. Well, after the violence of that night, Dr. Wiener realized it was no longer safe on the continent. He knew the Nazis’ influence would spread, especially when the other leaders of the world remained so quite about the horrors that had transpired—synagogues burned, Torah’s destroyed, Jewish homes and businesses ransacked, to say nothing of the thousands of arrests—all across Germany… So, Dr. Wiener moved the archives here to England the summer after Kristallnacht. The library has been here ever since.”

The blonde archivist relaxed to some degree, the great tale of Alfred Wiener now over and done. “Since the archives moved to London, we’ve expanded the scope of our collection. We now house anything and everything related to the Nazi party, the war period and the years after, and, of course, the Holocaust and the Jewish experience. This is due, largely, to the Nuremberg Trials. After the war, the British government came to Dr. Wiener and asked for survivor testimonies to use against the Nazi defendants. He was more than happy to provide.”

“Badass,” whispered Roxy. There was a general hum of agreement around the table. And finally, _finally,_ the Hunters understood why they were there. They eyed the numerous boxes around the room, reflected on the documents across the table at their fingertips, and wondered what knowledge might be contained in this room. If they had thought their own arc files impressive… Jonah thought of his safta and how he wished that she could see this place. He knew she would have found comfort in knowing that her work had not ended with her death. It had begun long before her and, Jonah peered around the library archives, would continue on long after.

“Make no mistake,” Rachel called their attention back to her. The archivist rested her hands lightly on the tabletop. “We are not the Wiesenthal Center. Now, we are primarily a research and archive facility. We are archivists and librarians and historians…we’re not Nazi hunters. Though, I suppose, that is where you all come in…”

The Hunters held a collective breath and looked to Harriet, who was, as ever, the picture of poise and confidence. So, this Rachel woman knew about them. Knew about the Hunt. Jonah felt a surge of anger. It was low and hot like molten lava creeping up his spine. Harriet couldn’t do this. She couldn’t just expose them without consulting the group, _first._

Rachel smiled, softly, at the Hunters’ newfound tense posture and calmly reassured them. “I cannot grant you unlimited across to our collection, but I _am_ happy to help you in any way I can.”

An abrupt, excited energy rippled through the New York crew, and Roxy nodded, appreciatively, vocalizing the new sensation. “Groovy. Thanks.”

Taking a breath to soothe his anger, Jonah sent a quick glare Harriet’s way before he braced his arms on the table and faced the woman. “Where do we start?”

* * *

The Hunters passed some several hours at the Wiener library, first having taken a preliminary crash course on the archives’ filing system, and then being allowed to test their new skills and browse the collection. Eventually, Harriet wrangled the team to leave with the understanding that they would return the following afternoon to begin their search for information related to the Nazis in the Die Spinne dossier, and Rachel shepherded them all to the front door.

Jonah was the last to leave, though he was stopped, briefly, by a hand on his arm.  
  
“You never introduced yourself.”  
  
“I’m Jonah,” he replied, and when he caught the quirks of her lips, the young New Yorker couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Yeah, like with the whale.”  
  
He waited for some mocking response, but all Rachel offered was a smile. When he stepped over the threshold and out into the London air, she closed the door behind him.

* * *

While the others went to catch a train back to Feltham, Harriet lingered. She had a secret rendezvous with her contact in British Intelligence. This, too, like her inclusion of Rachel in the Hunters’ plan, angered Jonah. This wasn’t like New York. Here, Jonah wasn’t some doe-eyed, inexperienced kid getting roped into something bigger than himself. They were in London _because_ of Jonah. Because he had refused to let the Hunt die along with his saba, and the gang’s exploits were being funded by Jonah’s—Meyer’s—fortune.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Jonah informed Harriet as the others purchased their tickets. As usual, the nun regarded Jonah with her characteristic expression, a subtle mixture of aloofness and don’t-fuck-with-me. She raised a pointed brow. “Oh?”

“We’re in this together.” He motioned between their bodies. “You can’t keep leaving me out.”

There was no mistaking the Sister’s patronizing tone as she responded. “Yes, Jonah, you’re absolutely correct, my old contact—a highly trained assassin and spy—would simply _adore_ you tagging along to our meeting. What’s a ruined alias between strangers?”

A muscle in Jonah’s jaw twitched. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You should have spoken to us before you told that Rachel girl what we’re doing. This—the Hunt—it isn’t yours to do with what you please. It belongs to all of us.”

“ _That Rachel girl,_ ” Harriet all but growled. “—has been doing this since before you became best friends with your right hand. You may have killed the Wolf, Jonah, but never assume that you’ve learned all there is to know about this bloody business. Now, if you’ll fucking excuse me, I have a meeting to attend.”

“What’s it about?” he called after her, a hard edge to his voice. “Your meeting? Don’t you think we should know?”

A few feet away, Roxy, Lonny, and Joe loitered, uncomfortably. Though they had attempted to give Harriet and Jonah some privacy while they secured train tickets back to base, the conversation had reached an elevated volume and the trio couldn’t help but bear witness.

Harriet, typically the embodiment of composure, was now brimming quite obviously with rage. To his credit, Jonah refused to back down as she whirled on him and barked, “It’s a fucking check-in. I’m to let them know we’ve arrived and intend to pursue these Nazi bastards.”

“So, we’re working for MI6, now? Because that’s not what any of us signed up for.”

“No, Jonah.” The Sister was full-on seething now. “But in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a whole new ballgame, as you Yanks would say. We were safe in New York because it was your home territory. Because we had powerful friends and allies. _This isn’t New York,_ and I need to make sure that when this shit gets messy, someone will be there to cover our trail or bail us out.”

She sent a sharp glance over Jonah’s shoulder to their sour-faced companions. With a huff, the Sister gathered herself. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I really mustn’t be late.” 

Harriet strutted away swiftly, and Jonah was left to stand alone in the busy underground station, feeling like an absolute fuck-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


	5. Happy New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nun rose and exited the pew. In the aisle, she hovered, hands folded delicately before her. Though she would not lower herself to look directly at Harriet, the Nun tilted her chin downward and spoke, softly, “Welcome home, Harriet.”
> 
> OR: More is revealed about Harriet's past, and the rest of the Hunters become friendly with Rachel, the archivist, as they celebrate Rosh Hashanah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place immediately after the previous chapter, so Harriet has just left the other Hunters to meet with her MI6 contact. Also, I realize that Tarantino isn't everybody's cup of tea, but I really love _Inglourious Basterds_ , and I simply couldn't resist the shoutout. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Tucked quietly inside a private, iron gate covered in a stubborn ivy just off of Albany St, a stone’s throw from the British Museum and across the street from Regent’s Part, there sat an inauspicious chapel. It was a modest affair made of stone with a small, ocular stained glass window bearing the image of the Holy Mother, Virgin Mary, and the narrow courtyard leading to the wooden front door was full of wobbly, mossy cobblestones and one quite fat oak tree, whose long and full branches curved over the garden gate to shade the pedestrian pavement.

It was here at St. Mary of Egypt Convent that Harriet found herself once she parted from the other Hunters after an illuminating first meeting with Rachel at the Wiener Library.

Crossing the familiar courtyard, Harriet entered through the front door and made her way to the main chapel. It was empty that late afternoon, and Harriet approached the altar, where she knelt, made the sign of the cross, and said a quick prayer for fortitude and resolve. A quick prayer, because Harriet knew she would not be alone for long.

“You met with the girl?”

Harriet rose to her feet and joined the Nun in the pews.

“Yes.”

“And she’s going to cooperate?”

A clipped nod. “She seems willing enough. She was mum in front of the others about us. But I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Good. I should hope you understand what is expected should she get out of line.” Harriet’s lips puckered as if she’d sucked on a lemon. When she neglected to respond, the Nun pressed on. “The Americans, they suspect nothing?

“No,” Harriet declared, swiftly. The last thing she needed today was to contend with her superior’s suspicions about the Hunters. “They’re all more than eager to begin.”

“Excellent.” The Nun rose and exited the pew. In the aisle, she hovered, hands folded delicately before her. Though she would not lower herself to look directly at Harriet, the Nun tilted her chin downward and spoke, softly, “Welcome home, Harriet.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

* * *

After their lackluster breakfast early that day, the gang had grabbed sandwiches from the shop inside the train station, and though they were moderately filling, the sandwiches were far from satisfying. Needless to say, they were all eager for a decent dinner that evening. Only, the Hunters had arrived back at their little row house in Feltham to recall that their kitchen stores were empty and that they were sorely in need of a grocery run. So, together, the four of them strolled into central Feltham—led by Joe’s keen sense of navigation and memory—to the local Asda.

The grocery store was small by comparison to big market grocers back in the states, though it was similar in size and scope to the street grocers they’d each shopped at in New York—even if many of the products were odd and different.

“Bagged milk? No, honest, guys, it’s in a _bag._ ” Lonny wrinkled his nose.

Roxy held out a jar of something that looked, frankly, like black tar. “Anybody ever heard of Marmite?”

Joe hefted up a pack of an unfamiliar brand of beer. “Why is this in a four pack? Who was this made for? ...better grab two or three.”

“Mindy would be genuinely disappointed by the lack of matzo meal. Seriously, what, are there no Jews in England?” asked Lonny, glancing at Jonah for support as part of his own resident, personal Jewish community. Jonah just smirked as Roxy dropped a packet of bacon in the kart, to which Lonny immediately raised a pointed brow. “Um, what’re you doing?”

The four of them hovering in the meats section, the freedom fighter stared at Lonny, pointedly.

It was Joe who interrupted the stand-off. “Not all of us are kosher, man.”

“Oh, that’s just not right. That’s just—that’s just _wrong_.”

“Lonny, I’ve seen you put away two bacon cheeseburgers in under four minutes.”

“Shut your mouth,” the actor hissed at the young woman, glancing over his shoulder in paranoia, as if the mere mention of the words _bacon_ and _burger_ in his presence was enough to conjure his mother across the Atlantic.

Half an hour later as the ragtag bunch began their trek back to the house, groceries in hand, Roxy made an announcement. “I hope you boys don’t expect me to do all the cooking.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Rox,” Jonah replied, earnestly, flashing her a boyishly charming smile over his shoulder. “I know how to make a pretty decent chicken noodle soup.”

Lonny wiggled the sunglasses on his nose. “I’ve also been known to make a mean schav—among other things. Man’s gotta eat, ya know?”

At her shoulder, Joe bumped his arm against Roxy’s playfully. He peered down at her with a soft smile. “We’ll all do our part. We’re all in this together, after all.”

“Yup,” Lonny gave a dramatic sigh. “One big, Nazi-huntin’, Jew-lovin’ family. Our own little Scooby gang.”

Roxy gave a wistful grin. “My daughter loves that cartoon.”

Lonny smirked. “Who doesn’t?”

* * *

The next week passed in a blur.

The Hunters established and settled into a daily routine fairly quickly—working out bathroom schedules, cooking and laundry rotations, and even the assignment of a few household chores (Jonah didn’t mind doing the dishes so long as Joe kept the bathroom tidy, Roxy would sweep and vacuum if Lonny took out the trash and put the bins by the road on garbage days, and so on). They also discovered each other’s annoying little habits that inevitably arise in such close quarters. Roxy was especially annoyed by Harriet’s sloppiness in the kitchen, Jonah loathed it when Lonny sang ( _loudly_ ) in the shower, and Joe was a downright grumpy nightmare before seven a.m., coffee or no coffee.

In addition to navigating their newfound intimacy as a team, they’d also adopted a fairly regular research and skills training roster.

Every day, in pairs of two, the Hunters would make their way into London to search the archives at the Wiener Library, compiling information on the escaped Nazis featured in Harriet’s dossier. Those who didn’t go into London would remain at the house in Feltham and train. Some days, it was hand-to-hand combat or weapons training with Joe, Harriet, and/or Roxy. Other days, it was lockpicking with Roxy or communications instruction with Harriet. Sometimes, it was map reading or German lessons or—you get the point. Although their number one priority was finding and killing the monsters from the Die Spinne file, all of the Hunters understood that in order to succeed long-term as a professional Nazi hunting squad, they each needed to expand their individual repertoires of skills.

One day, Lonny and Jonah were squirrelled away in the basement of the London library with the pretty and young archivist, Rachel, when Lonny huffed theatrically and stood, cracking his back as he went. “Man, who knew Nazi hunting could be so damn _boring._ ”

“Sorry it’s not all the glitz and glamour you’re used to,” replied Jonah, dryly, not bothering to look up from the file in his hand. From her usual post at the high table, Rachel murmured, distractedly, “I suppose he has a bit of a point. Nazi hunting must’ve been a touch more exciting back in the old days.”

“You mean like during the war?”

Rachel shrugged in response to Jonah’s question. “And after.”

Lonny frowned. “Whatta ya mean ‘and after’?”

Pausing her work, Rachel took off her eyeglasses and fixed the pair with a coy look, a slight smirk lifting the blonde’s lips. “Surely you boys don’t think you’re the only ones who have ever wanted justice or revenge?”

The retired actor snorted. “What, you mean like Wiesenthal?” To which his younger hunting companion added, “That’s hardly the same thing.”

Rachel nodded, then elaborated. “Wiesenthal, yes. And Mossad, obviously. But there have been others, too. Others whose methods are a lot closer to your own.” Unceremoniously, the young archivist turned from her post and disappeared down the long, filing-cabinet lined hallway. Jonah and Lonny passed dual looks of confusion, but their expressions morphed into childlike curiosity when Rachel returned carrying a stack of folders.

She tossed them down onto the high table and beckoned for the boys to join her.

The folders were covered with the names of institutions and individuals. The Wiesenthal Center was one that both Lonny and Jonah recognized—the rest they did not. Tuviah Friedman, the Basterds, Serge and Beate Klarsfeld, Nakam… Jonah picked up the file. “ _Nakam_. That’s Hebrew, right? It means _revenge_?”

“Yes.” Rachel smiled, pleased with him, and Jonah felt a surge of satisfaction. Lonny poked a finger at the cover of the folder. “Yeah, yeah, they were survivors, right? They wanted to kill six million Germans, eye for an eye kinda thing.”

“’ _A nation for a nation.’_ Or so that’s what their leader supposedly said,” replied Rachel.

“What happened?” asked Jonah, flipping through the newspaper clippings, court documents, and arrest reports. Rachel waved at the archival material as if to say, ‘see for yourself,’ but she responded, nonetheless. “They were unsuccessful, obviously. The radical group had plans to poison large supplies of German drinking water, but that was accidentally subverted by the British. There were also rumors of plans to attack U.S. POW camps and kill German soldiers. Nothing concrete, however, and as far as we can tell, nothing ever came of the plot, so…”

Jonah shook his head in disbelief as he peered down at a mugshot of Abba Kovner, head of Nakam. “How have I never heard of them before?”

Rachel shifted through the files and withdrew a folder labelled ‘the Basterds’. “These are my favorite,” she declared with a small grin. Lonny accepted the file, tossing the folder open to find a photograph of a special military unit. They were no more than ten guys, all in uniform, rifles over their shoulders, all glaring with determination and rage at the camera lens. Lonny held up the black-and-white picture to Jonah. “Who are they?”

“They were an American Special Forces outfit of the OSS comprised _solely_ of Jewish-Americans and led by this man here—” She pointed to a mustached man to the left in the photograph. “Lt. Aldo Raine. They dropped into Europe long before the Allied invasion and spent nearly a year just, well, killing Nazis. Eventually, they were roped into Operation Kino, a plot to kill Hitler, Göring, Bormann, basically the entire Nazi high command—and they would’ve succeeded, too, if the German double agent hadn’t been compromised.”

“A German spy?” the boys declared in unison, the incredulity clear in their voices.

“Mhmm. Apparently, the whole affair was her idea, actually, but her cover was blown by a man suspected of being a former lover. Frankly, in the end, it was a bit of a shit show...you may have heard of her. Bridget von Hammersmark?”

Jonah’s jaw literally dropped in amazement. “The fucking movie star?”

“What? _No_.” Lonny squalled, devastated. “That’s _my_ thing.”

Rachel gave the actor a sympathetic, if somewhat patronizing, smile, then she picked up her empty coffee mug. “I’m going to get some more tea. Would you two care for anything?” When neither replied in the affirmative, Rachel nodded and motioned the folders. “Feel free to keep browsing.”

The pair did just that. There were so many more recorded Nazi hunters than either man could believe. One folder, labeled for the Mossad, was mostly empty except for a few leaflets on the Eichmann manhunt and a note on Josef Mengele, an SS doctor at Auschwitz, more commonly known as the Angel of Death. Lonny frowned in disappointment at the lackluster folder contents. “I’m sure the Israelis have classified their files…” he reasoned with himself.

“Can you believe this, man?” Jonah’s eyes were wide. The kid licked his lips impatiently. “How many others are there? How many are out there _right now,_ just like us?”

The older man smirked. “I hope a fuck ton.” Then, he added, his tone a bit softer, “It’s actually kind of nice, ya know? Takes a bit of the pressure off to know we’re not the only ones trying to make things right.”

After a brief pause, Jonah sighed, though it came out more as a breath of relief than one of melancholy. “I guess you’re right.”

“Mhmm.” Lonny nodded, sagely. “I often am.”

With a snort, Jonah couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

* * *

The middle of September arrived before they knew it, marking two months since the Fourth Reich caused the New York City blackout. It also marked the beginning of the Jewish New Year. Rosh Hashanah, 1977, began on September 13th. Much to their embarrassment, both of the Hunters’ resident Jews had completely forgotten about the holiday until one evening the week before when Joe and Roxy came back from London to inform the rest of the gang that Rachel had invited them to dinner to celebrate the new year.

“We’d like to come, too,” added Joe, somewhat sheepishly, gesturing to himself and the freedom fighter who was, these days, seemingly glued to the veteran’s side. “If—if we can, of course.”

On the first morning of Rosh Hashanah, Mindy called from New York to wish everyone a Happy New Year.

The familiar and warm threads of Mindy’s voice were just what the Hunters needed—even if they hadn’t realized it until the Marokwitz matriarch rang. “Now you boys know…” Mindy tutted over the telephone. “You _cannot_ work today. This is very important. No work must be done, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mindy,” Jonah and Lonny chorused, as they stood with the rest of the gang gathered around the receiver, Joe tugging at the chord to give them all more room.

“And are you going to Temple to hear the Shofar?”

The two Jews passed a knowing look. Since their touchdown in England, the boys hadn’t exactly had time to join a synagogue. But there was no use in telling Mindy that. So, with a single shared glance, they both understood what they had to do: lie. “Yes, Mindy.”

“Good, good. That’s good. Oh, my Murray—he may not have loved Temple, but he loved Rosh Hashanah. Maybe it was for the food, but ah, what does God care?” The love was evident in Mindy’s tone, and it warmed the hearts of the other Hunters.

“We miss you, Mindy,” called Harriet. Beside her, Roxy grinned, and she and the others echoed the Sister’s sentiment. They could practically hear Mindy blush through the phone as she blubbered a reply, “I miss you, too, my darlings. Very much. And— _oh_! Roxy! Malika is doing _wonderful_ , just wonderful. What a bright little girl, and so kind.” 

The remainder of the call passed in a similar fashion as the Hunters gave Mindy updates on their work at the Wiener Library and Mindy regaled them with tales from across the pond. No one would admit it aloud, but the hour immediately following Mindy’s call was filled with more homesickness than any of them had felt since their airplane first landed.

Later that afternoon, Harriet announced that she had other plans and would not be joining the rest of the gang, who were fairly excited to attend Rachel’s gathering. It was the spirit of the holiday and the memory of his safta—Ruth always loved Rosh Hashanah—that kept Harriet’s secrecy and absence from getting underneath Jonah’s skin. After a little more time in London, Jonah had finally come to accept that he couldn’t control Harriet the way that Meyer had. This revelation was due, in part, to a late-night chat with Roxy in the kitchen one night, after which Jonah felt comfort in the knowledge that this—the Hunt, Europe, all of it—couldn’t happen without him or his money. He might not have total control, but this was still his birthright and Jonah wasn’t going to give that up.

Rachel’s place was already crawling with folks when the Hunters rang her doorbell. A flamboyant man in a purple ascot who introduced himself as Max let them inside and told them to help themselves to a drink before he disappeared into the crowd of bodies in what the gang realized was a living room. Though the flat was small, there was something homey about the plants in the windows and the soft rugs that covered the cheap carpet. There was also the lingering scent of a home cooked meal, which made the place all the more inviting, even if the scent clashed with the steady thrum of disco music.

Roxy gave an appreciative smile. “I like the way you guys do holidays…”

With a glance around the room, Jonah snorted. “This isn’t like any Rosh Hashanah I’ve ever been to.”

“Same here,” Lonny murmured, head twisting as he followed the swaying hips of a woman in a long burgundy dress. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“That’s probably because there’s no one over forty here.” The gang turned collectively toward the new voice to spot a statuesque brunette holding a glass of wine and grinning at them welcomingly. “I’m Hannah, Rachel’s flatmate.” 

As Jonah was the closest to her, he nodded his greeting and introduced himself. “M’Jonah, and these are, well, my flatmates, I guess. We, uh, we met Rachel through the library.”

“Oh, right! Right!” Hannah beamed. “The American researchers. Yeah, she told me she invited you. I’m glad you lot could make it. You’ll find yourself in good company here—lots of ex-pats, Jews—” She grinned at Roxy and Joe. “—and non-Jews from all over the world.”

“How do you all…?” Joe gestured vaguely.

Hannah shrugged in a careless and happy way. “Oh, you know, we all met in that way people do…being young and single and Jewish in London, there’s a certain scene there.” She laughed, merrily. “And we’re all a bit of a friendly sort, just collected each other like strays. Ah! There’s Rachel!”

The blonde was weaving her way through the throng of people in her living room, chatting with a boy about Jonah’s age, when she spotted the Hunters and her gaze brightened. “You came!”

A bit giddy, her cheeks flushed from alcohol, Rachel leaned in to give Roxy a hug, and when the young women pulled apart, Roxy spoke, “Harriet couldn’t make it. She sends her regrets.”

Rachel gave a knowing smirk. “I’m sure she does.” Then, she turned and greet the boys, before the archivist added, “I’m so happy you all are here! There’s nothing worse than being in a new place during the holidays and having nowhere to go. My first Passover here _sucked._ Anyway, we’re going to eat in about half an hour. Please, mingle, meet people! And help yourself to whatever you find, okay?” 

It didn’t take long before Rachel and Hannah both were pulled away by blurry faces among the crowd and the Hunters were left to their own devices. As instructed, they ferreted out some drinks, snacked on some light hors d'oeuvres of pretzels and fruit, and attempted small talk with a couple by the window. Eventually, Hannah stood on a kitchen chair and announced that it was time for prayer before the dinner began.

Wandering into the kitchen area where everyone was gathering, Joe nudged Roxy’s side. “Have you noticed that Rachel’s and Harriet’s relationship seems a bit…strange?”

Roxy contemplated his question for only a second before she confirmed, “Yeah, there’s definitely a history there.”

Lonny and Jonah had overheard the brief exchange, and within seconds, Lonny leaned forward to suggest, “Ooh, maybe they were— _lovers_.” The last word rolled off Lonny’s tongue salaciously, and the actor wiggled his eyebrows. Roxy rolled her eyes and gave her mustached friend a shove. “Maybe you’re a pervert.”

Jonah pointed. “My money’s on pervert.”

Joe nodded in agreement. “Same here. Definitely.”

“You guys just don’t have any imagination.”

“No,” countered Roxy with a glance of repugnance. “We just don’t confuse reality with porn.”

“I was almost in a porno, once. It was this—”

Joe and Roxy stalked off without another word, leaving Jonah to clap Lonny on the shoulder. He met Lonny’s eyes, his expression quite seriously, and the young New Yorker leaned in close enough that he could smell Lonny’s aftershave. “Dude, nobody cares.” Jonah jerked away and flashed Lonny an all too satisfied grin. “Happy Rosh Hashanah, man.”

* * *

When the Hunters returned to Feltham that evening after Rachel’s holiday party—each of them filled with a sense of happiness, full from the feast and the fellowship of their new friends—, the hour was well passed midnight, and Harriet was still not home.


End file.
